


the center of it all

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28513926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There are moments on the pitch when Harry finds himself looking forward in time. One second, five seconds, ten seconds. He sees the pass before he makes it, sees the defenders like they’re chess pieces, and at the center of it all, there’s Sonny, only Sonny.Harry and Sonny, in the wake of their thirteenth 20/21 Premier League goal together.
Relationships: Harry Kane/Son Heung-Min
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42
Collections: Anonymous





	the center of it all

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place the night of Tottenham vs Leeds United on 2021/01/02.

10 goals and 10 assists. That’s what everybody keeps congratulating him for. Harry is proud, of course—you need a certain amount of pride to play at this degree of finesse—but the milestone that’s been bouncing around in his head, occupying every nook and cranny of his thoughts since the final whistle blew, is the one he shares with Sonny.

Thirteen times. Thirteen times they’ve found each other on the pitch. Thirteen times they’ve shown the world they’re here to play. Thirteen times they’ve shown the world they’re here to stay. The naysayers had nursed their doubts for a long while. _Can Kane and Son link up? Can they put aside selfish desires and do what’s best for the team?_

What a load of bull it is, for the pundits to conflate ambition with ego. It’s not egotistical to want to be the best. They’re professional footballers. It’s expected of them, it’s desired, and it’s only practical.

Now, the press can’t get enough of them. _Kane and Son lead a magical season together. Kane and Son continue to display their telepathic understanding. Kane and Son still have Tottenham believing anything is possible._

Kane and Son. Kane and Son. Kane and Son. Nobody can say one without mentioning the other. They’re a single soul housed in two bodies, and they even have their own portmanteau to prove it.

Harry’s achieved his own milestone, but it’s nothing compared to the KaneSon milestone. Underneath all of the praise, the pundits are still wrong about one thing: he has linked up with Sonny, and he has been able to do what’s best for the team, but it’s not out of selflessness. If anything, he’s more selfish than before.

Sonny’s the type of player who enters the pitch with the attitude that the match is already won. At the very least, that’s the aura he gives off. His confidence is infectious, his love for the game, unmatched—and once you see him running next to you, you can’t help but want to pass the ball to him. It’s a degree of trust, a deep-rooted connection that can’t be found anywhere else.

There are moments on the pitch when Harry finds himself looking forward in time. One second, five seconds, ten seconds. He sees the pass before he makes it, sees the defenders like they’re chess pieces, and at the center of it all, there’s Sonny, only Sonny. When Sonny is there, aching for the ball, calling for it as though it only belongs to him, you listen and obey. You give Sonny what he wants, not because Sonny is selfish, but because he’s the exact opposite of that. Sonny will take your trust and deliver it to the back of the net. It’s a promise of more to come, and it’s a beautiful sight to behold.

Harry, on the other hand… Harry is selfish. He can attribute the happiness from assisting Sonny to the rush of adrenaline that comes with the game, but he knows, deep down, that it’s not that at all. What he feels is something else entirely.

He knows, because this feeling isn’t limited to the pitch. He feels it when Sonny brings him a smile along with a coffee in the mornings, when Sonny slips his hands into Harry’s jacket pockets because he’s cold, and when Sonny melts into Harry’s side when they’re sitting next to each other, using Harry’s shoulder as a place of reprieve. These actions are always accompanied by a simple question, one that Harry’s not even sure if Sonny is aware that he’s asking: _Is it alright if I stay?_

Sonny asks Harry for one thing, and Harry has the desire to give him the infinite. Thirteen times they’ve shown the world what they can accomplish, but that’s not enough, not even close. He wants to announce it to the galaxy, yell his devotion to the depths of the universe.

He finds Sonny later that evening, Sonny still lingering out on the pitch. Sonny does this sometimes after a home game, goes out to the empty pitch and stands there in the middle underneath the lights and the stars, looking up, always up. Harry likes to stay behind too, just to catch a glimpse of Sonny, the sun at the center of the galaxy.

It suits him. There’s no other place Sonny should be.

Sonny hears Harry coming before he’s barely stepped onto the pitch. There’s that hyperawareness again, an adoration that Harry can only wonder if it’s singularly meant for him. They keep their eyes fixed on each other as Harry makes his way over, his body returning like a magnet to the pole of Sonny’s existence.

Harry steps onto the line at midfield, looking at Sonny with what he hopes is affection, but not too much to give himself away. “Congratulations on your one-hundredth goal,” he says, his heart about to burst with pride.

Sonny smiles back, and there Harry’s heart goes, bursting, never standing a chance. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Harry wants to think that’s true. He really does. But Sonny is Sonny, and he could thrive anywhere. One day, Sonny will run too far ahead and Harry won’t be able to catch up. He sinks his hands deeper into his pockets, for fear of reaching out and doing something he doesn’t have an excuse for.

There is so much he wants to say, with not enough words to say it with.

“You’re magnificent,” is all he can come up with, in the end.

Sonny peers back up at the sky, broad and expansive and growing bigger with every second that Sonny exists in this world. “Everybody keeps telling me that, but you say it differently.”

Harry freezes, his heart stuttering inside his chest, twisting and turning into knots. “Is that a good thing?”

“I hope so,” Sonny says. He doesn’t sound finished. He inhales in and out, his breath manifesting as visible puffs in the air. Harry waits, would wait for as long as Sonny is willing to give him.

Finally, Sonny says, as quietly as Harry has ever heard him, “four more.”

“Four…” Harry trails off, temporarily caught off guard.

“Four more until…” Sonny flushes, a pretty pink that makes Harry think of very inappropriate things. “Until we have seventeen goals together.”

Harry considers this as Sonny continues kicking at the ground, avoiding his gaze. “Is there something special about seventeen?” He’d thought that they’d already matched the previous record.

If he had any doubts that a man could be even redder, he’s no longer doubting as he, wide-eyed and breathless, watches Sonny transform into a tomato.

“You—You know,” Sonny stammers. He starts fidgeting, squirming, growing jumpy. “Seventeen is… um. Our numbers.”

 _Oh._ Now Harry’s the one turning into a tomato. Sonny was always candid with his thoughts and generous with his feelings, but this is on a different level entirely. Thank God there’s only the two of them around. What would the press say if they caught wind of this?

Sonny must misinterpret his silence for something negative, because he promptly waves his hands, slicing them around in the cold air. “Never mind,” he says, laughing sheepishly, a self-deprecating sound that Harry immediately wishes he didn’t have to hear. “It’s silly, isn’t it?”

And Harry knows he shouldn’t read into the subdued bounce in Sonny’s step, the rueful sigh that escapes Sonny’s throat, but what’s a man to do when someone as ordinary as him can tease out such reactions from someone as extraordinary as Son Heung-Min?

Thirteen times they’ve shown the world what they can accomplish, but that’s not enough, not even close. Maybe it’s time for Harry to give something back.

He grasps Sonny gently on the arm with one hand, tilts Sonny’s head up with his other. Sonny’s eyes are broad, expansive, growing bigger with every second that Sonny exists in this world. Their depth is infinite, their possibilities, endless.

That’s when he finally gets it. He doesn’t need to announce anything to the galaxy, doesn’t need to yell anything to the depths of the universe. Sonny is the galaxy. Sonny is the universe. Sonny is at the center of it all, and he’s the only person who needs to hear Harry speak.

He tries summoning the euphoria of their thirteen goals together, to put it into his voice and deliver it to Sonny like Sonny delivers balls into the net, and finds, to his surprise, that it’s pretty simple. Then, he thinks about it a bit more and realises how foolish he’s been. It was never about the goals. It was always about being close to Sonny, and only Sonny.

“You’re magnificent,” Harry tells him again, now that he understands what he’d meant by that the first time around. He notices the audible little gasp that Sonny makes, and becomes that much more endeared to him.

Here’s where Sonny’s big heart overpowers him: Sonny smiles, dimples caressing his face like the dawning of a new day, and crashes into Harry’s arms.

“Seventeen,” Sonny murmurs into Harry’s chest. He tightens his arms around Harry’s waist, burrowing deeper into Harry’s heart. “I’ll give them to you. I promise. You’re my partner. You can’t do it with anyone else first.”

Harry holds in a laugh. Maybe neither of them are as selfless as people like to believe.

“Sounds perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking around ‘til the end! I’m not too familiar with Tottenham as a team or Harry and Son’s history, but I’ve loved seeing them play together this season, and I just had to write a little something after they reached their most recent milestones. The world brightens that much more with every hug they share on the pitch, doesn’t it?


End file.
